


Quiet World

by augustskies



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Reality, Light Angst, M/M, the author has no idea what this is either
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:47:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24088351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/augustskies/pseuds/augustskies
Summary: The first time the silence is broken, it’s Harry, nudging Malfoy’s shoulder, pointing out a single firefly perched on the ledge between them.“Look,” he whispers, forgetting about one hundred and sixty-seven words.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 6
Kudos: 59





	Quiet World

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tsauergrass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsauergrass/gifts).



> Very much inspired by Jeffrey McDaniel’s “The Quiet World.” 
> 
> In an effort to get people to look  
> into each other’s eyes more,  
> and also to appease the mutes,  
> the government has decided  
> to allot each person exactly one hundred  
> and sixty-seven words, per day.
> 
> When the phone rings, I put it to my ear  
> without saying hello. In the restaurant  
> I point at chicken noodle soup.  
> I am adjusting well to the new way.
> 
> Late at night, I call my long distance lover,  
> proudly say I only used fifty-nine today.  
> I saved the rest for you.
> 
> When she doesn’t respond,  
> I know she’s used up all her words,  
> so I slowly whisper I love you  
> thirty-two and a third times.  
> After that, we just sit on the line  
> and listen to each other breathe.

In the absence of words, they learn to read each other all over again.

Clumsily, at first, like children bleary with sleep, stumbling through halls which seem to stretch on endlessly.

They exchange weary smiles over breakfast, point at the marmalade dish and silently pass it on.

When the owls come swooping in, there’s no commotion, no excited shouts and clamoring voices rising one over another.

Letters are opened without fanfare, with an almost clinical detachment.

Sometimes, there will be a hint of a smile afterwards- an upward tilt of the lips or a crinkling of the eyes. Those letters, the ones bearing good news, are carefully folded and tucked away in their pockets.

Classes carry on in much of the same way, except these days the only sounds filling the classrooms are the scratching of chalk on blackboards and the occasional rustle of papers or scraping of chairs.

Heads remain bowed over desks, either lost in thought or staring off into space.

Hermione gives Ron a small jab in the shoulder with her pen just as his head begins to droop, and immediately his back straightens again.

Some things never change.

Quidditch practice is postponed indefinitely, but Harry heads out after classes each day, as do a handful of others.

When he’s airborne, the air feels different in his lungs somehow.

Less like it’s trying to strangle his windpipes than pump adrenaline into his blood.

They don’t have enough people for a full match, so the rules are pretty much void.

Harry stays true to his Seeker’s instincts, dodging Bludgers while scanning the horizon for a glimpse of gold.

 _Faster,_ he thinks. _Higher._

He chases the fluttering ball to the edge of the field, then begins his search anew when he blinks and momentarily loses sight of his objective.

There’s a pull in his gut which has never been there before, urging him on almost beyond reason.

By some unspoken understanding, no one takes on the position of opposing Seeker to challenge him for the coveted Snitch.

He’s grateful there are no probing questions, not even when he stays behind long after everyone else has left for dinner, only a bottle of water and a towel waiting for him in the locker room.

Hermione and Ron save him a plate of lukewarm food when he finally joins them at their usual spot in the Great Hall.

Hermione had asked, once, when she’d watched their practice from the bleachers and stayed behind until they were the only two left on the field at dusk.

Eyes downcast, she’d taken hold of his hand, the one still wrapped around the Snitch, knuckles muddied and bruised.

_“Why?”_

It was a simple question, a single word, and yet he’d been bound to the spot, unable to give her a single one of his in return.

_Why did Seekers chase the Snitch? Why did he, Harry, chase the Snitch?_

If he closed his eyes, he could almost pretend what he held in his fist right then was something else entirely.

If he imagined that what he was chasing after wasn’t a ball, but everything, no, _everyone_ he’d let slip away, it was the easiest thing in the world to let loose and follow it anywhere, even if for now the farthest that could be was still within the boundaries of a field.

Of course, he couldn’t say any of that.

He didn’t have enough words left.

And so, instead, he’d held her hand back and squeezed.

“I’m okay,” he told her.

###

They started seeing each other at night, on the roof of the Astronomy tower.

It began when he woke drenched in a sheen of cold sweat. He wanted to scream, to reach out and tear the night apart.

Not knowing where he was headed, he slipped on the Invisibility Cloak over his pajamas and left the dorm in a haze.

The corridors were silent, just as silent as they were during the day. He thought about using up his words right then, whispering feverish wishes into the shadows.

Then promptly almost snorted out loud at the sheer ridiculousness of the thought.

He’d save six, no, twenty, words for Hermione and Ron at breakfast.

He could say, _Mornin’._ He could ramble on a little about their Charms paper due that day.

 _They’d be relieved,_ he thinks.

Without realizing it, he’s been climbing a set of winding stairs.

When he pushes open the rickety door in front of him, for a split second, he wonders if perhaps this is nothing but a strange dream after all.

There, only several feet away, is Draco Malfoy, sitting on the edge of the tower with his back to Harry.

He freezes in the doorframe, caught between stepping forward- and facing his Slytherin classmate, and retreating before he’s noticed.

In the end, Harry’s never been one to back down from a challenge.

Besides, there’s something slightly unsettling about the scene in front of him, though he can’t quite put his finger on it.

He decides that must be why he shuts the door behind him quietly.

Malfoy doesn’t move a single muscle, doesn’t so much as turn around when Harry walks up behind him hesitantly.

His legs are dangling over the edge of the tower, hands splayed out behind him in a relaxed posture.

When a few moments pass in silence, Harry takes another step forward.

He opens his mouth to ask what the other boy thinks he’s doing, but instead ends up sitting down a few feet away.

The stars are dim that night, blinking in and out of existence, scattered sparsely across the expanse of inky darkness above.

Gradually, his mind goes blank.

He forgets why he’s on the Astronomy Tower with Draco Malfoy at two in the morning.

He forgets about the allotted one hundred and sixty seven words for the first time since the new policy was placed.

He accepts that whatever feeling is stirring inside of him right now can’t possibly be translated into words, new policy or not.

 _And maybe,_ he thinks.

 _Just maybe, that’s good enough for now_.

###

For a few consecutive weeks, they fall into the same pattern without meaning to.

Sitting side by side, keeping a safe distance from each other, they spend their nights gazing off into nothing in particular together.

There’s no need for stilted conversation, something Harry finds himself grudgingly appreciating.

During the day, nothing changes.

He sees Malfoy in between classes, occasionally, and they exchange an almost imperceptible nod in acknowledgement.

Though that in itself, he supposes, is change enough.

Sometimes, Malfoy brings a book up to the roof to read.

Wordlessly, the book is passed between the two of them.

He points out certain passages from time to time, and learns to decipher the looks he gets in return.

A quirk of the lips, a raised eyebrow, a slight frown.

He’s getting used to the familiarity of those nuances.

It’s all too easy, he thinks, to fall into the lull of these silent conversations.

He finds himself wondering what their first words to each other might be.

As it turns out, it’s nothing of significance.

The first time the silence is broken, it’s Harry, nudging Malfoy’s shoulder, pointing out a single firefly perched on the ledge between them.

“Look,” he whispers, forgetting about one hundred and sixty-seven words.

Malfoy looks up from his book, blinking a few times in surprise.

“It’s a- “

They speak at the same time.

“ _Firefly_.” Malfoy.

“ _Miracle_.” Harry.

They look at each other, and Harry laughs.

“It’s both.”

###

After that, the words flow between them.

They discuss the lengthy crime novels Malfoy seems to be fond of, arguing about motive and suspects and red herrings.

Harry blurts out his thoughts all at once, in a breathless tirade, until he’s cut off mid sentence and utterly irked.

Malfoy rolls his eyes and chooses his words with care, always contemplating before articulating.

They talk about seemingly nonsensical subjects, one thought exchanged for another in what feels like a verbal spar.

It’s never monotonous.

During the day, he’s left with barely any words and falls asleep in half his classes.

Hermione asks, once again, over dinner, if he’s alright.

“I’m okay,” he tells her.

Only this time it doesn’t feel like a lie.

###

“If you could be anywhere in the world right now,” Harry says.

“Where would you go?”

They’re lying on their backs, arms pillowed behind their necks as they stare at the sky.

Malfoy doesn’t answer until the first light of the day is piercing through the clouds.

“Anywhere.” His voice sounds distant.

“It’s the going there I’d want the most.”

For a moment, Harry is caught off guard.

Then he breathes out slowly.

“That sounds good,” he says. “I think I know what you mean.”

They watch the sun rise in silence.

###

In some ways, the world is much the same. 

Businesses open and close at the same time each day, the jangling of wind chimes announcing customers who will point at their orders on the menus. 

There are no more strained smiles and _How can I help you today._ No more raised voices arguing about whose turn it is to take the garbage out. No more bickering and _How was your day._

Laughter, genuine gut-wrenching laughter, is rare, but happiness seems to find other ways of quietly sneaking into their lives all the same. 

It manifests in thousands of tiny gestures spanning from a dimpled grin to a kiss on the nose. 

Music fills the echoing halls, old vinyl records and modern hits alike. Songs and literature go up in value- everywhere people find solace in the steady stream of words pouring out between pages and radio speakers. 

They learn to find wonder in hearing their own names spoken from the lips of another.

_I choose you_. 

_ Out of the one hundred and seventy thousand words existing in the English language, narrowed down to a hundred sixty-seven, I choose the one that represents you.  _

Harry makes sure to call Ron and Hermione at least once a day. 

If he were left with only one, though, he’d say,  _family_. 

And then there’s Malfoy, Malfoy with his novels on the roof, always sitting a little too close to the edge. 

_ Potter,  _ he says, looking appalled when Harry shows up in mismatched socks and one of his most hideous Weasley sweaters. 

It makes him want to laugh, and so he does. 

Every time he glances down at the hundreds of feet of empty space beneath them, he wants to ask,  _ Are you afraid of falling? _

He wants to ask,  _ How many words have we spoken today?  _ and  _ Say my name. Again and again and again.  _

Most of all, he wants to say the words which terrify him the most. 

Hope is a dangerous, disquieting thing, settling firmly in one’s chest with the sole intent of blooming wildly and uprooting everything familiar.

###

When Harry turns twenty-six, he calls Malfoy at two in the morning from a pub, slightly tipsy. 

The lighting is dim, soft indie music playing somewhere behind the bar. He’s got one hand wrapped around an Irish coffee, the other holding his phone to his ear. 

Outside, it’s raining and the cobblestone streets are near empty for once. 

He’s used a hundred and forty-seven words. 

While the line is ringing, he tells himself he’ll use up all the rest if Malfoy picks up.

He does.

Harry draws in a sharp breath.

“Morning,” he murmurs. “Wasn’t sure if you’d be up.” 

Malfoy sighs, then, “Happy Birthday.”

After a pause, he adds, grumbling “ _Git_.  Never  calling at a decent hour.” 

The corners of his mouth involuntarily tilt up. 

“This is going to sound crazy,” he starts again, heart thudding. 

“But I think I might be in-“

There’s silence on both ends of the line. 

Harry curses himself, deciding to blame the alcohol. 

He wants to ask Malfoy not to hang up, to wait until the next day. 

_One hundred and sixty-seven words._ He could repeat the words fifty three times and then again.

There’s another lapse before Malfoy speaks again.

“I know, Potter,” he says softly.

If he didn’t know better, he’d think the other man had the hint of a smile in his voice.

And then he must run out of words as well, because neither of them say anything more. 

They stay on the line until morning, listening to each other breathe.

**Author's Note:**

> To E: I’m so, so sorry this is so late! By nearly a week! That being said, I hope you enjoyed this drabble of your favorite boys. When I stumbled across this poem, I immediately knew I had to write something based on this oddly enticing concept. The atmosphere I had in mind while writing this was very mixed- a little melancholic, slightly drowsy, but ultimately, hopeful. It’s hard to describe the exact feeling (AND HONESTLY PART OF ME STILL HAS NO IDEA WHAT I WROTE) but *hands you this* Happy birthday again *blows kisses* and *hugs you a thousand times*


End file.
